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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26552479">Electrostatic Force</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/astramaxima'>astramaxima (shotgunsinlace)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Homeland [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Dubious Science, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pillow Talk, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Spooning, Suggestive Themes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:28:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26552479</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/astramaxima</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Patching Stone up after yet another close call, he and Robotnik have an impromptu heart to heart under the covers in a hotel room a million miles from home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Homeland [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881388</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>98</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Electrostatic Force</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the shirt comes off, Robotnik does <i>not</i> experience the secretion of arginine vasopressin into the hypothalamus and the sudden release of testosterone is <i>only</i> there to fortify the structural integrity of his mustache. Nothing more and nothing less. In a brazen demonstration of personal bias, he neglects to acknowledge the causation aspect of scientific inquiry—because he needs to retain some sort of sanity in the face of such blatant disregard to his person.</p><p>It isn’t the first time an injured Agent Stone has tried to sneak off into the bathroom, back straight and smile so easy Robotnik marvels at how he’s able to lie right through the pearly whites that comprise it. Neither will it be the last time Robotnik orders him to undress and sit his ass down to be patched up with the latest and greatest of medical grade tools made by his truly.</p><p>“Is that a laser?” Stone asks.</p><p>Stupid question. Almost as stupid as his previous one regarding the legality of unpatented and untested technology being smuggled into foreign soil. “Are you doubting me?”</p><p>“No, but it kind of feels like a tattoo gun. Tickles.”</p><p>“One may have been repurposed and retrofitted with a higher density output coupler along with a neodymium yttrium aluminum garnet for greater precision. Early and frequent access to your DNA profile has allowed for the process of cellular regeneration to be accelerated through the usage of—are you even listening?”</p><p>“Laser stitches,” Stone says, cross-legged and rigidly still despite the dip of the mattress when Robotnik rests a knee on it. “But… reversed? Excited photon particles cause heat, so wouldn’t it tear flesh rather than join it back together? Oh! Cauterization.”</p><p>Had it been anyone else, Robotnik would have stopped mid procedure and let the wound reopen for the insolence. Stone is adept at picking up cues, knowing when to play dumb and when to put on his smart boy pants, and right now he ought to know that shutting up and letting Robotnik work his magic would be the wisest thing to do unless he wants to add yet another scar to his already extensive repertoire.</p><p>Gloved hand pressed against Stone’s latissimus dorsi, Robotnik finishes up the last of the deeper wounds courtesy of rusted shrapnel.</p><p>The mission had gone sideways, hairier than it has in years when an allegedly trustworthy informant placed on their path by General Whatsherface sold them out to a private tech sector in Lesotho. Stone had been quick and clean about making the double agent no longer their problem (as clean as spilling an entire human being’s worth of blood can be), but the damage had been done and the ensuing skirmish made Stalingrad look like the RNC of ’73.</p><p>Hours have passed but the adrenaline still pumps like five milliliters of epinephrine shot right to his engine. If it weren’t for the auto stabilization mechanism, the healing seams on Stone’s back would look like his real-time EKG graph.</p><p>“Hotový! A job well done, if I do say so myself,” Robotnik announces, shutting down his assortment of tools before carelessly tossing them onto the bed. “Allow six to eight hours for deep tissue recovery and you’ll be as good as you’ve ever been, Stone. You’re welcome and don’t mention it.”</p><p>Stone rolls his head, follows the tidal motion down to his shoulders, stretching his arms by crossing them over his chest and making his trapezius and deltoids shift under his skin. Skin that is soft to the touch, warm; a deceptively fragile cover for the lethality coiled deep within muscle tissue and bone. Machines make Robotnik untouchable, Stone’s body alone—from sharp eyes to quick feet—makes him unkillable.</p><p>A demigod delivered from Olympus with the fires of Apollo burning in his silhouette. Kārttikeyaḥ himself, bearing his father’s sacred javelin in the form of his bare hands—fingers delicate and divine.</p><p>“Feels better than stitches,” Stone says, slipping off the bed as Robotnik packs up. Standing clear, he makes a quickdraw motion and winces, writing it off with a tight laugh. “I’ll try that again in six to eight hours.”</p><p>Robotnik removes his surgical gloves and disposes of them into the trash bin beside the television stand along with other hazardous materials he no longer needs, before walking over to the decrepit A/C unit that sputters at his proximity alone. If they were staying longer than a night in this poor excuse of a five-star hotel, he would have taken a gander at optimizing the prehistoric piece of equipment just to take his mind off the bombshell agent strutting around the room like Adonis come to hunt.</p><p>“Can I shower?”</p><p>“If it means you can rid this room of your putrid musk then be my guest.”</p><p>“I meant,” Stone says, lifting an eyebrow in Robotnik’s direction, “will it affect the healing in any way? I’m sure you brought a spare battery pack, but there’s no point in going through it again.”</p><p>Robotnik turns away when the tips of his ears begin to burn. He focuses on the A/C dial and lowers the temperature. Poor circulation means he will likely freeze to death, but proper healing of the ambulatory surgery requires a cool environment to help the process. He is only doing this as a means to keep his track record untarnished.</p><p>“Assuming you know the proper way to shower, you shouldn’t worry about any innards escaping through the cracks. And keep it under three minutes. Nothing more annoying than dressing wrinkly skin.”</p><p>Stone, still bare-chested as he rummages through his duffel bag for clean clothing, is smiling to himself. “I can dress them myself, Doctor.” Finding what he’s looking for, he straightens up with a <i>look</i> in his eyes that kicks off the countdown to Robotnik’s apparent cardiac arrest. “I’ll make sure to leave you some hot water.”</p><p>As the sanctimonious little bastard vanishes into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind him, Robotnik chucks the nearest roll of gauze he can find at it only for the bundle to hit the scratchy carpet and unroll itself at one tenth of the speed of his patience. If there is one thing he hates—and there are many—are games of ‘will he won’t he’. Worse yet ‘is this a game of will he won’t he or am I picking up the wrong signals yet again’. There is never any telling where Stone is concerned, never any coherent leaps where he himself is concerned, and it all just becomes a mess of jumbled circuitry his brain refuses to waste the joules on while his body is all gun-ho to get jiggy with.</p><p>Amongst the infinite partitions in the gray surface of his prefrontal cortex and hippocampus, Stone’s name loops like an old favorite record played to the point of scratching beyond repair. A haunted one. One that continues to suffocate the room even after the stylus has broken off and the turntable continuously jams.</p><p>It’s infuriating but not enough to make him do anything about it. Robotnik merely ignores it, uses it to his advantage. Stone is a reminder for every inconsequential thing he needs to see to day by day, his presence alone triggering an involuntary reflex of survival not exclusive to high-stress, high-risk situations.</p><p>Agent Stone isn’t a problem—<i>yet</i>. He is only a distraction when Robotnik <i>allows</i> him to be. A voluntary reflex. Keeps the blood pumping. Better to face human attraction than the barrel of a gun pressed between the eyeballs, on the odd occasion.</p><p>They switch places at the three minute mark, Robotnik hauling ass into the bathroom when Stone walks out with only a towel wrapped low on his hips despite the bundle of clothing in his hands.</p><p>Head under the scalding hot water (the one good thing the hotel has going for it), Robotnik presses his palms to his eyelids with a frustrated growl. It has to be intentional. But why would it be? Just because the boundaries of their professional relationship are neither boundaries nor professional does it mean there is anything beyond it. And here he thought himself capable of suppressing needless biological hoo-ha. Involuntary reactions to external stimuli—Stone is a conventionally handsome man with a great smile and a soothing voice.</p><p>A ruthless assassin willing to do anything for his doctor.</p><p>Fuck, if that doesn’t make Stone twice as attractive.</p><p>Before he can do anything he might flirt with regretting, Robotnik methodically washes himself and steps out with little fuss. He dresses (already a more honorable man than his agent) and checks out his reflection in the mirror. After seeing nothing he is overly fond of, he brushes his teeth and leaves his things in the sink to be packed away in the morning.</p><p>In the room, Stone’s semi-nudity makes sense.</p><p>The towel is securely tied, but the extra bit of skin reveals a myriad of cuts and bruises Robotnik missed earlier. Nothing severe enough to merit the laser, but after likely having gotten them clean in the shower, Stone is now carefully disinfecting away and applying the triple antibiotic ointment he grabbed out of his first aid kit.</p><p>“Pressure was pretty nice,” Stone says as he rolls his shoulders for the umpteenth time that evening, massaging the column of his neck with a groan. “Sure beats the hell-hole that was the Himalayan Front in Nepal. Remember that?”</p><p>“Your escapades into the Koshi are forever emblazoned in my brain, I am loathed to inform.”</p><p>Stone laughs, and it is a deep sound that rumbles in his chest. “The Sherpa promised healing properties.”</p><p>“And instead you caught a parasite.” Robotnik remembers it as clearly as he remembers every moment of his life, as fleeting as they may be. Nepal had been one of their first missions abroad as a single unit of operation. “Cotton swab.”</p><p>“I can get it.” </p><p>Robotnik wordlessly holds out a hand, and Stone immediately complies.</p><p>“Keeping secrets.”</p><p>“Didn’t realize those were there until the soap hit.”</p><p>A plausible explanation given Stone has equated getting shot to being bit by a mosquito. Robotnik has pulled more bullets out of him in the past three years than he cares to count. He wonders if he has somehow enabled Stone into becoming this reckless, now used to relying on Robotnik to drag him away from the brink of death. As if he didn’t have anything better to do.</p><p>Sitting on the edge of the bed, Robotnik waits for Stone to stand between his legs, back to him for decorum’s sake. Mouths shut and thoughts loud, the ointment is applied and left to air dry, but the more grievous injuries do require dressing as to not be disturbed throughout the night.</p><p>Stone hands over a roll of gauze before raising his arms above his head.</p><p>Robotnik focuses on the material in his hand and not at all on the remnants of shower heat still on Stone’s skin. He appraises the movement of his back muscles purely for medical reasons, just to make sure he isn’t having an adverse reaction to his experimental treatment. Getting the roll started, Robotnik reaches around and, with enough forced calmness to actually smack Stone’s chest, harrumphs at the proximity. “Hold.”</p><p>Clearly, he doesn’t specify <i>what</i>.</p><p>Stone rests both his hands over Robotnik’s, pressing his palm tight against his chest.</p><p>The A/C clicks off and it is as if all sound has been sucked into a vacuum, all but the click of his thick swallow and the shifting of his suddenly heavy tongue inside the cavern of his mouth. The rush of blood in his ears, and the gears in perpetual motion inside his head come to an agonizingly loud halt. Even Stone’s breathing, suspiciously even, is deafening between them.</p><p>Neither of them are strangers to the other’s touch, so banal a gesture it doesn’t even merit their attention. Robotnik has felt the smooth, brown skin currently under his hand countless times before, that powerful beating heart, but never in the absence of at least a pint of spilled blood.</p><p>Robotnik feels himself sway, freezes in mortification for that split fraction of a second in which his own body thought it acceptable to rest his forehead between his agent’s shoulder blades. He refrains from doing so but only barely, a foreign but insistent ache holding heavy in his gut.</p><p>“The bandage, Stone,” he clarifies.</p><p>Stone adjusts his hold without apology, otherwise unmoving as Robotnik finishes up.</p><p>“All set?” he says, patting down the gauze in search of imperfect seams but finding none. “I would almost take you for a former Boy Scout.”</p><p>Robotnik scoffs, looking away when Stone finally deems it acceptable to put on his pajamas. The gray sweatpants hang just as low as the towel did, and the pronounced vee of his hips remain a taunting menace until a worn CalTech shirt is pulled over his head and tugged down over the drawstring that fascinated him so. “Cute that you would think kid me capable of taking any sort of orders.”</p><p>“You don’t seem too pressed about it now. I figured—”</p><p>“That I’ve been a bootlicker all my life? Joke’s on you, Stone. I didn’t get a whole boot shoved where the sun don’t shine until I was twelve years old and had just finished high school.”</p><p>“Were you really enlisted that young?”</p><p>Robotnik cracks his knuckles, repeatedly flexing his fingers to expend the unwanted energy still surging through him like a bad hit. “I was <i>bored</i>. The military had <i>toys</i> for me to play with.” He smiles at the memory, holding out his hands gently cupped as if to relive the feeling of holding his first nuclear bomb during his preteen years. So gloriously unstable; the both of them.</p><p>The sound Stone makes is almost a laugh, a muted huff as he moves around to secure the room for the second time since their arrival. “You should get to bed, Doctor. It’s getting late.”</p><p>“Take the left side.”</p><p>“Left side?”</p><p>“Of the bed.”</p><p>Stone pauses with a pillow in hand, ready to take his unofficially designated spot on the floor. “I prefer the back support.”</p><p>“Talking back, Agent?”</p><p>“No, sir.” He hesitates, attention flicking between the sheets Robotnik is turning down and Robotnik himself. “If this is about my injuries—”</p><p>Robotnik holds up a finger, effectively shutting him up. “You’re of no use to me—regardless of your Speedy Gonzales complex—if someone bursts through that door with the intent to kill. You get what I’m saying?”</p><p>“Perfectly clear,” Stone says, looking outright confused over the simple explanation.</p><p>Without further instruction, Robotnik hits the lights and gets under the sheets on the right side of the bed—<i>always sleep on the dominant side to exert one’s dominance</i>—grateful when the A/C kicks back on with a steady hum. He’d otherwise have no hope of sleeping in a deathly quiet space.</p><p>The mattress dips and so does Robotnik’s stomach, heart kicking right back into high gear.</p><p>“There’s a spare duvet in the closet to layer over the mattress pad. I could lay those down in front of the door in case anyone tries something stupid. I’m a light sleeper.”</p><p>“Remember the time when you <i>didn’t</i> question me?”</p><p>“Seems like eons ago.”</p><p>“Don’t make us go back to that.” </p><p>On his back, he watches Stone settle down out of the corner of his eye, his blurry edges standing out in the faint light that seeps in through the curtains. Robotnik almost books it the moment the mattress stops moving, a lifetime’s worth of all sorts of hang-ups popping in to say hello. However many sleeping surfaces they have shared throughout the years, each as unorthodox and uncomfortable as the last, never have they slept on the same bed.</p><p>Robotnik tells himself it doesn’t mean anything, remaining perfectly still as if any sudden movement would break the bubble. He counts each endless second, listens to the A/C and the even breaths so near to him on the queen-sized mattress.</p><p>“Tell me about number eleven,” Robotnik says through clenched teeth, a small headache beginning to form in the middle of his forehead.</p><p>“Number eleven,” Stone echoes, as if wondering which recipe to pluck from his rolodex. “After the cartel…?” He takes a moment before clicking his tongue. “Hah. Do you want the botched job or the completed one?”</p><p>“The Unmatched Agent Stone botching a job… I have been lied to. Bamboozled. I demand a refund.”</p><p>“Two months it took me to scout and map out the area, overriding security feeds on my crappy laptop while hunting down the proper IDs to falsify my own.”</p><p>“What name did you choose?”</p><p>“Matthew Reeves.”</p><p>“You get no points for originality.”</p><p>“It was a suit and tie event, I needed something convincing.”</p><p>“Where’d you get the suit?”</p><p>“I stole it from the dry cleaners,” Stone says, matter-of-factly.</p><p>“Again, unoriginal but I can respect the practicality. Go on.”</p><p>“Night of the event and I was in position before my client called it off, something about being unable to commit to damning the world for the sake of a grudge. Or some melodramatic bullshit.” He exhales sharply through his nose with a hint of amusement. “I should have seen it coming, though. I was never given a name or a description, just a vague ‘you’ll know when you see him’. I rolled with it. Confident enough to believe I <i>would</i> know who it was I had to kill on sight and no information.”</p><p>“Spineless troglodytes.”</p><p>“Tell me about it. Could’ve spent that time replacing my car’s engine but nope. Instead, I spent my evening overheating in a too-big suit while cramped behind a pillar at MIT.”</p><p>Robotnik takes a deep, stuttering breath, imagining a younger Stone elbows deep in motor oil, monkey wrench in hand. He cuts the vivid mental image short, unwilling to make an already stiff situation worse.</p><p>In the echo chambers of his mind, something about Stone’s story blips for his attention. He follows the seemingly random thread of thought, running statistics, diving through hoops and into a cone of light that gets ever brighter the quicker he chases it. “MIT.” It dings like an elevator, his eyes snapping open with a feeling of befuddled awed. “<i>MIT</i>.” He knows he is being stared at. “Stone, you absolute scoundrel.”</p><p>“I’ve been called worse.”</p><p>Robotnik turns to lay on his side, surprised to find Stone mirroring the action. “The absolute fiasco that was the Innovative Minds Convention of ’14 that, for once, had nothing to do with me.” Even in the dark, he can see the sheepish smile. “The fake bomb threat followed by the sprinkler systems kicking on and ruining every Kardashian wannabe’s pompous and honestly repugnant attire. What are the odds, Stone? What are the odds.”</p><p>Stone barks out a quiet little laugh that pierces right through Robotnik’s chest. “Tell me you weren’t my target.” Shaking his head, he breathes yet another laugh, this one borderline hesitant. “Oh, what the fuck. Is that how you found me? Did you know?”</p><p>“Your target: likely. Everyone including Suzie from accounting wants me dead, but you and I, at the same place at the same time? Entropy at its finest.”</p><p>“I could’ve killed you.”</p><p>“But you <i>didn’t!</i> Chaos theory.”</p><p>“Mm, I like Jurassic Park. Have you ever tried cloning dinosaurs back to life?”</p><p>“San Francisco is still in one piece.”</p><p>“But is it, you know, possible? If you wanted to?” Stone curls in on himself, voice low as if to keep these confidential hypotheses within the space of their bodies. Dirty little secrets between an agent and his doctor. “Science fiction can sometimes lead to real world discoveries.”</p><p>Robotnik watches him, here, stripped bare of everything that makes Stone a god of war amongst the plebeians that drawl through life without any true sense of dignity or purpose. Their noses a mere sixteen centimeters apart, his eyes gleam so prettily in that dark room.</p><p>“Aw, do you want me to make you a little baby T. Rex? Maybe a pachycephalosaurus?”</p><p>Stone hides his face against his pillow, grin goofy. “Styracosaurus was cooler. It’s basically a trike but spikier.”</p><p>“You’re a literal child.”</p><p>“Did you have a favorite dinosaur?”</p><p>“There was never any point on deciding which extinct reptile was superior. I can see how you would have the time to dwell on such a useless argument.”</p><p>Stone yawns and his breath is minty fresh. “No time for fun when you’re a genius kid, huh.”</p><p>“Nor as an adult, for that matter.”</p><p>“I do loathe being an adult.” Rolling onto his back, Stone stretches like a cat who has just awoken from a nap. His limb moves sinewy and sleek under the covers, bandages still securely in place as he turns onto his side again, this time with his back towards the doctor. “You do strike me more as the Dr. Malcom type.”</p><p>“High praise, being compared to Mr. Goldblum.”</p><p>“You’re not bad on the eyes, either.”</p><p>The same squeeze again on the left side of his chest has Robotnik going still as a more insidious sensation strokes his loins at the offhand compliment. <i>How inappropriate,</i> he wants to rebuke, hypocritically, considering his own constant desire to physically close the distance between them. Maybe Stone is being facetious. Very likely. He can be a real jokester when he wants to be. “Are the bandages holding?” he says instead. </p><p>Cowardly. Professional. Detached. Pulse racing.</p><p>“It feels looser around my chest. The tape may have come undone.”</p><p>“I should take a look at that before either of us falls asleep.”</p><p>“Here,” Stone says, blindly reaching back for Robotnik’s hand. It is offered and pulled to rest against Stone’s chest, over his shirt. “Can you feel it?”</p><p>The only thing he can feel other than the threadbare fabric are all of his organs beating in tandem in the narrowest passage of his windpipe. Robotnik shifts on the bed, tentatively smoothing his hand across Stone’s chest before realizing, to his utter mortification, that Stone is being flirtatious.</p><p>But.</p><p>—<i>What of it?</i></p><p>“They… might need to be held in place. Throughout the night. Or else risk the catastrophic and life-threatening reopening of your wounds.”</p><p>“Sounds dangerous, Doctor.”</p><p>“It is <i>very</i> dangerous,” and if his voice drops to a hitched whisper, it is not his fault. It’s Stone who shimmies backwards on the bed, using his grip on Robotnik’s hand to pull him closer. “Someone should hold onto it. Apply pressure. Make sure we don’t wake up in a pool of your blood.”</p><p>Fingers threading together and still pressed to Stone’s sternum, his agent curls up enough to fit into the bends of Robotnik’s long form, back to chest. “Survival might require both our painstaking effort,” he says, angling his head enough to look at the doctor with a beatific smile. “It may sound like a lot of work, but I’m sure we can manage.”</p><p>Robotnik props himself up on an elbow to stare down at the cunning eyes that look up at him with conspicuously fake innocence. “You’re sound of mind,” he says, toeing the line between statement and question. It sounds too much like asking for permission to his own ears, but the tension bubbling between them is too magnetic for even Robotnik to avoid.</p><p>Not an inch of him is free of the ravenous appetite that pulls him down, gravity his bane, until their noses nearly brush.</p><p>“Yes,” Stone replies, breaching the distance until skin meets skin, heads tilting minutely but pausing when that electric shimmer of not-quite-touch lights Robotnik up from the very tips of his toes to the curve of his ears. “Yes.”</p><p>The whispered word causes their lips to brush. Merely a phantom caress that has them sigh in pleasant surprise, before Stone leans up for a firmer seal.</p><p>There and gone, Robotnik licks his lips and shuts his eyes to take in the foreign sensation, so novel and sweet he wants a million more right then and there. All he gets is an intentional brush of their noses, playful in its chasteness, before Stone settles back down onto the pillow Robotnik now invades as if it were his birthright.</p><p>“Goodnight, Doctor,” Stone says, easing them into a more natural position, still-joined hands resting low on his waist as he melts into Robotnik as if he were crafted to fit there, made to his specific dimensions for this very reason.</p><p>Robotnik ponders the odds, rearranges the variables to reverse engineer the equation behind the infinity symbol that cuffs his hands to Stone’s as if it were yet another universal constant. The strings of careful plotting interwoven by sheer happenstance—from the plucking of a man so insouciantly awaiting to ride the lightning, to the intimate embrace Robotnik has only ever shared with cold pillows that carried nothing but the smell of disuse and synthetic oil.</p><p>That day in the lab when Stone unceremoniously crashed against his chest, he knew he planted a seed that would eventually germinate against his better judgement. Robotnik has often theorized where the path of feelings and emotions and human connection lead, and it’s never anywhere good. Not for him. Never for him. An asset does not get to indulge in creature comforts: curled up behind their agent, under warm bed sheets in a cold hotel room, continents away from what can be considered home.</p><p>Their shared pillow is cool beneath his head, crowded, but Robotnik does not mind. Not tonight, when his mouth tingles in the aftermath of a kiss wanted and meant, his arm securely around the only person there is and will ever be. The bonding of a positive and negative ion. Electrostatic.</p><p>Pressing his face against the back of Stone’s neck, Robotnik fills his lungs with the scent he has come to associate with his agent—that underlying hint of gunpowder and wilderness hidden by cheap soap and whatever detergent he favors. Mundane. Average. Like a Sunday morning in September, coffee set to brew.</p><p>Stone’s thumb caresses Robotnik’s knuckles in a gentle pattern, one that pushes him beneath the surface of wakefulness and into the blissful void of sleep—for once achievable, calm, and, above all, peaceful.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>and this concludes this series!! i hope you guys enjoyed it. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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